The Red Line

by Walt Gragg

  In the end, the odds were just too great for the Americans to overcome. As each Russian armored vehicle fell, ten more rushed to take its place. As each American was destroyed, the rest were that much more susceptible to being overwhelmed.

  All around the apple orchard, the fierce struggle continued for a full fifteen minutes. By the time the last M-1 was surrounded and dispatched, the Americans had eliminated 141 enemy vehicles. The cavalry soldiers had destroyed their opponent at a four-to-one ratio.

  Yet when it was over, the inevitable had occurred. The American armor had been overwhelmed.

  • • •

  With Murphy’s sudden appearance on the battlefield, the majority of the fighting swiftly shifted from the center of the staid orchard to its flanks. Hidden behind a wall of snow, Robert Jensen hammered away at a squad of infantry attempting to advance up the highway. He stopped firing for a moment to retrieve a replacement ammunition clip. Over the sounds of the ongoing armor struggle, an enemy soldier took careful aim and squeezed the trigger of his AK-47. The bullet tore through Jensen’s modest snow fortress, catching him squarely in the upper thigh. It missed the bone but ripped an exit hole the size of a silver dollar in the back of the platoon sergeant’s leg. A crippling pain surged up his spine, settling deep within his brain. Despite his valiant efforts, he dropped into the snows and struggled to regain his footing.

  Seeing their antagonist fall, a Russian soldier ran forward. He tore the pin from a hand grenade. The white-clad figure hurled it from forty yards away. The throw came up short, a full ten yards short. Lethal pieces of the exploding grenade rushed out in every direction in their determined quest to maim and destroy. Propelled at incredible speed, death ripped through the winter air. A thumbnail-sized chunk of steel found its mark. A glancing blow of daunting metal struck Jensen on the left side of his face. It lodged in his skull just above the temple. The fragment missed his eye by less than an inch. The platoon sergeant fell to the ground and moved no more.

  A pair of Russian soldiers rushed up the roadway to within a few feet of their wounded foe. The time had come to finish off the tenacious American. The infantrymen raised their rifles. Each took aim and slowly began to squeeze the trigger.

  The sound of firing echoed across the center of the battlefield.

  CHAPTER 24

  January 29—4:15 a.m.

  2nd Platoon, Delta Troop, 1st Squadron, 4th Cavalry

  Outside the Town of Schirnding

  Both Russians tumbled into the deep drifts in front of the wounded platoon sergeant’s position. Ever-expanding pools of red formed beneath their lifeless bodies. Their squad reacted slowly, confused by what had just happened to their comrades. Another brief burst of gunfire, and two more perplexed figures fell. The bewildered Russians retreated, looking first for cover and only then for the source of the unexpected attack.

  A second infantry squad rushed forward to support the first.

  Up the highway the Humvee roared, with Ramirez at the wheel. Standing behind the machine gun, Steele fired round after round to protect the fallen leader of 2nd Platoon.

  The moment the Humvee reached the front of the orchard, Ramirez leaped from the vehicle. He ran the fifteen feet to his sergeant. Steele continued to fire, holding off the Russian infantry. Ramirez looked at Jensen’s motionless form. The young soldier bent down to pick up his wounded leader. As he did, a bullet slammed into Ramirez’s right shoulder. Blood spurted from the new wound. The stunned Ramirez took one look at his latest injury and slumped facedown in the snow.

  Steele glanced at the fallen figures. Neither Jensen nor Ramirez was moving.

  “God dammit! Ramirez, get your ass up!”

  He squeezed the trigger on the machine gun, pinning the Russians down once more.

  “Get up, God dammit! Don’t leave me out here alone!”

  He knew they’d all be dead in seconds if he left the machine gun and tried to help his wounded countrymen.

  Ramirez slowly raised himself on his left arm. He shook his throbbing head, fighting against the unbelievable pain. Waves of nausea washed over him. The right shoulder of his parka was turning a deep shade of red. He staggered to his feet. The Russian squad’s fire was homing in. Still more enemy infantry were closing with their position. Ramirez could hear the whistling bullets striking all about them. Round after round ricocheted off the Humvee’s metal frame or stung the snows near the Americans.

  He grabbed Jensen’s arm. The private torturously dragged him across the snow toward the Humvee. As he did, a bullet ripped through Jensen’s left boot. Blood rushed from the platoon sergeant’s foot.

  Pulling Jensen behind him, Ramirez crossed the open ground to the idling Humvee. A crimson trail marked his way. With a superhuman effort born of necessity, he lifted the much larger sergeant and dumped him into the passenger seat. Ramirez raced around the vehicle and crawled behind the steering wheel. With his left hand, the private reached across and threw the Humvee into gear. He shoved the gas pedal to the floor and jerked the steering wheel to the left. The hard tires spun in the snow, digging for the frozen ground below. The Humvee fishtailed as it whirled about. It rushed away from the orchard at full speed. Standing behind the machine gun, Steele lost his balance and tumbled to the floor.

  They never looked back.

  The Humvee raced through the village. It headed down E48 toward Camp Kinney. Ten icy miles to cover with a badly bleeding, one-armed driver and a passenger near death from three severe wounds.

  • • •

  While the Humvee sped down E48, the last American tank succumbed. With the exception of the constant secondary explosions, few sounds of battle invaded the ancient orchard. Of the blocking force, a single soldier was still firing. In his position thirty yards to the left of the burning wreckage that housed the charred remnants of Austin and his gunner, Aaron Jelewski continued to fire after the destruction of the last Abrams. A squad of Russian infantry moved in. They encircled his fortress of snow. Hundreds more were running toward his position.

  It was hopeless. Jelewski threw down his weapon and raised his arms over his head. A lieutenant and three private soldiers rousted the badly burned American from his hole. They walked him back toward the maze of flaming tanks. The blazing remains of nearly two hundred armored vehicles were strewn about the snowy field as if haphazardly tossed there by some vengeful god.

  The command tank rushed forward. It stopped a few feet from the prisoner. The division commander climbed down from his tank. He walked over to the captive. Jelewski stood with head high. The defiance in his eyes was unmistakable. The general took one look at the proud American, drew the pistol from his hip, and shot Jelewski dead with a single round to the head.

  “We have no time for prisoners, Lieutenant,” the general said over the sounds of the continual secondary explosions.

  Without giving it a second thought, the division commander climbed back onto his tank. The armored vehicle drove away.

  The horrific battle at the orchard had been the division commander’s second blunder of the war. As had been promised by the Army Group Central Commander, his bullet to the head would also soon come. At sunrise, for his miscalculations, both in the valley and outside Schirnding, he’d receive the same summary fate that had befallen Aaron Jelewski.

  • • •

  “Is he alive?” Steele said. The concern was evident in his skittish voice.

  “Man, I’m not sure if I’m alive.” Ramirez glanced at the twisted form in the seat next to him. “I can’t tell if he’s breathing or not.”

  “We’d better get there soon.”

  “I’m doing the best I can. Now that the snows have stopped, this road’s starting to ice over. And I can’t lift my right arm at all.”

  “You want me to drive?”

  “Hell, no. I want you to get ready to kill any Russian bastard you see.”

 
“Shit, I’ve been doing that. You see how many of those sons a bitches I got back there?”

  “Yeah. You did great, man.”

  “So did you,” Steele said.

  “You know what, after what we just did, we’re a couple of damn heroes.”

  But neither felt like a hero. Other than the intense pain in Ramirez’s shoulder and the numbness that gripped them both, they felt nothing at all.

  They drove on in stunned silence. The Humvee plunged through the frightful darkness toward Camp Kinney. Each distressing mile was without end. Ramirez blocked out everything but the here and now. He battled with every ounce of dogged determination to keep moving west. Focus on the road. Focus on the ice and snow. Forget about your friends lying dead a few miles back. Forget about how much your mangled shoulder hurts. Forget about all the blood oozing down your back beneath your parka. Try to forget. Try to forget everything.

  And, eventually, the torturous miles did pass.

  Three miles from Camp Kinney, the Humvee was forced to stop at a roadblock. Two platoons, the squadron’s final sixteen Bradleys, waited to defend the highway. Anxious soldiers crowded around the Humvee.

  “Who’re you guys?” a lieutenant asked.

  “We’re 2nd Platoon, Delta Troop,” Ramirez said.

  “Where’s the rest of your outfit?”

  “They’re dead. Everybody back there’s dead, Lieutenant. And if you don’t get out of my way, my sergeant’s also going to be dead pretty soon. This guy saved our ass so many times tonight that I’d really like to return the favor.”

  “Sure, okay. Just one more thing before you go. How many Russians are there, and where are they?”

  “There’s about a thousand Russian tanks a few miles behind us,” Steele said. “Don’t worry, Lieutenant. You’ll see them for yourself soon enough.”

  Steele’s response had the desired effect. The soldiers instinctively stepped back. The Humvee raced off once more, this time with the fifteenth-century spires of Marktredwitz visible in the darkness ahead.

  When the Humvee neared Camp Kinney’s front gate, Ramirez didn’t slow down. Two MPs stepped into the roadway. They signaled for the speeding vehicle to stop. The next thing the MPs knew, they were diving into the dirty snows on the sides of the narrow entrance.

  The maniacs in the Humvee roared into camp. The MPs leaped to their feet. Each drew his Beretta and lifted his arm to fire at the intruders. They found themselves staring into the barrel of the Humvee’s machine gun. One look into the stone-cold, African-American face behind the gun, and they knew the soldier meant business. Their arms went down as quickly as they’d gone up.

  Absolutely nothing, neither heaven, nor earth, nor MP, was going to slow Ramirez and Steele.

  Ramirez raced toward the rear of the drab compound. At the last possible moment, he mashed the Humvee’s brakes. The vehicle skidded to a stop in front of the dismal gray building that served as the squadron dispensary. At the command center next door, Colonel Townes saw the Humvee arrive.

  Desperate for news, he hurried to meet the vehicle. Townes hoped it was a messenger with word of the battle on E50 to protect Nuremberg. Or someone who could explain the endless fires in the eastern sky above E48. What he found was the hapless trio.

  Townes looked at the distorted figure in the passenger seat. He knew the face. For the moment, however, the name escaped him. He glanced at the baby-faced privates. My God, they’re so young, the squadron commander thought. At this moment, hundreds of soldiers, exactly like these, are dying lonely deaths out there in the German snows.

  At least he believed they were young until he stared at their faces a moment longer. A terrifying look pulled him deep within their haunting eyes. Inside, he found two very old men, who in the past five hours had seen far too much of life.

  “Let’s get some help over here right now!” Townes said. “Get a stretcher out here! Hurry it up!”

  Two medics appeared from the dispensary with a stiff stretcher of green canvas. They laid the stretcher on the cold ground. Robert Jensen was gently lifted from the seat and placed upon it.

  The senior medic took his stethoscope, held up Jensen’s parka, and started moving the cold instrument around on his chest. He next checked the wounded cavalry soldier’s wrist, searching for signs of a pulse.

  “Is he alive?” the squadron commander asked.

  “Just barely. I’m picking up a faint heartbeat.”

  “Good. Get him inside. I don’t want to lose even one more man if we can help it.”

  The medics lifted the stretcher and carried it into the dispensary. The exhausted Steele climbed down from the rear of the Humvee. He struggled to help Ramirez out of the driver’s seat. Behind Ramirez, the seat was thick with blood. While they fought to maintain their balance in the snows, Colonel Townes spotted the heavy red stain.

  He turned to Ramirez. There was true sadness in the squadron commander’s voice. “I’m sorry, Private. I saw the bandages on your head, but in the confusion didn’t notice your other wound. Can you make it into the dispensary?”

  Ramirez’s false bravado spewed forth a final time. “Hell, sir, I’ve been hurt worse than this just walking down the street in East L.A.”

  But the truth was that without Steele’s support, Ramirez would’ve collapsed on the spot. Townes gingerly cradled Ramirez’s injured shoulder and walked with the pair toward the dispensary. When they neared the building, Ramirez and Steele spotted the long rows of bodies lying in the snows. Each was covered with a thin plastic sheet that blew in the biting winds, revealing the grisly secret hidden within.

  Inside the cramped dispensary, they found a madhouse. The squadron doctor, his physician’s assistant, and six medics were attempting to save the lives of two dozen badly wounded soldiers. The conversation was stilted and terse. Harried people ran in every direction. The stain of fresh blood was everywhere. The three stood frozen in the doorway, watching the macabre scene unfold.

  The physician’s assistant and a combat-experienced medic were frantically working on their newest patient.

  “What’s his blood type?” the PA asked.

  The medic grabbed Jensen’s dog tags. He held them between two fingers long enough to make sure he didn’t make a mistake.

  “A positive, sir.”

  “Any A positive left?”

  “Nope, got a couple of bottles of A negative.”

  “Well, use them, then. Give him at least two pints.”

  The medic fought his way to the refrigerator. While he waited for the blood, the PA recorded Jensen’s vital signs and began checking his injuries. The festering head wound brought immediate concern.

  “Doctor, when you get a chance, you’d better take a look at this one.”

  Ramirez collapsed. He dropped to his knees on the bloodstained floor. Colonel Townes helped Steele drag him to the only open examining table.

  A medic hurried over to take a look at the latest in a lengthy line of problems.

  “Get some blood into him, too,” the PA said.

  “Blood type’s O negative,” the squadron commander said while looking at Ramirez’s dog tags.

  “Oh shit,” the medic said. “Only one O negative left.”

  “Use it anyway. Then follow it up with some plasma,” the PA said.

  Cradling two pints of blood, the other medic rushed back to Jensen. He shoved a long needle into an exposed vein and taped it in place. Moments later, he did the same with the platoon sergeant’s other arm. A quick check of his efforts, and he was on his way to help with Ramirez.

  “We can handle it from here, sir,” the medic said as he gently moved the squadron commander away from the table. He hoped Colonel Townes would take the hint and leave the hectic room.

  Townes didn’t miss his meaning. He turned to Steele. “Let’s go outside, Private. I need to ask you some q
uestions about what’s going on up there.”

  “All right, sir,” Steele said.

  They headed for the door. For Steele, it was a welcome relief to leave the gruesome dispensary without its appearing that he was abandoning his buddies. They walked outside into the darkness and the unrelenting wind.

  “What unit you with, Private?”

  “Second Platoon, Delta Troop, sir.”

  “Were you the ones making all that noise up on E48 a while ago?”

  “Yes, sir. Us and Captain Murphy and his tanks.”

  “What happened to everyone else?”

  Steele’s answer was little more than a whisper. “I think they’re all dead, sir.”

  “You say you think. Do you know for sure?”

  “No, sir. I mean we didn’t see everyone die. But I’m pretty sure the Russians got them all.”

  “Where are the Russians now?”

  “Right behind us, sir.”

  “No one to stop them before they get here?”

  “Only one between them and us are those Bradley crews we talked to outside town.”

  “No one else?”

  “No. No one else, sir.”

  Not the answers Townes had hoped to hear. But at least he now knew where the squadron stood.

  “Thank you, Private. Stick around, I might need to ask you some more questions later on.”

  Steele nodded in understanding. The squadron commander turned and walked toward the command center. It was time to plan one final, hopeless battle.

  • • •

  It was little more than a slaughter. The sixteen Bradleys never had a chance on the open ground. As soon as they were spotted, the Russians unleashed an immense barrage that nothing could survive. Remaining outside the TOWs’ range, the tanks destroyed their opponent without facing a single effective shot from the squadron’s Bradleys. At most, the eighty-six American lives slowed the Russians enough to add ten precious minutes to the West’s time.